


Blood

by entanglednow



Category: Being Human
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-25
Updated: 2008-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George knows by now, the shape and smell of Mitchell without looking</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood

BBC2 is teaching George things he's almost certain he _never_ wanted to know about hyenas. Things he's sure wildlife experts went above and beyond the call of duty to find out. Nature proves yet again that she can find a million ways to amuse herself without science.

The remote control has, somehow, found its way to the middle of the floor, at least four inches in front of George's foot, and he can't quite be bothered to get up and get it, to change channels.

So he continues to, unwillingly, learn things about the reproductive organs of hyenas.

The front door opens, two hours earlier than he expects, bringing in a draft of cold air and darkness, and Mitchell.

And George knows by now, the shape and smell of Mitchell, without looking. And usually it's a familiar enough smell that it drifts into the house, in a completely benign and harmless way, for all its faint taint of chill and death.

But today George stiffens, and turns away form the TV.

Because today Mitchell smells like blood.

He pushes the front door shut behind him with one pale hand, and then strips his coat off, black wool sliding down his arms, he doesn't even bother trying to catch it, he just lets it crumple on the floor.

The blue material of his uniform is red wet across the chest, and down one arm. Droplets are scattered across the back of one hand, and there's a great messy smear against Mitchell's left shoulder.

"Oh my god what happened, what did you-"

"Nothing," Mitchell's voice is hard and thin, it's half lost. "I didn't do anything. There was an accident, a coach crash, I had to carry-" he swallows, and whatever else he was going to say seems to lodge in his throat.

There's a smear of red on the pale skin of his neck, tiny droplets decorating his jaw, and George can tell by the wet crinkle of fabric on his chest, that the blood has soaked all the way through.

Mitchell swallows, then seems to wish he hadn't, he takes a hoarse, sharp breath through his mouth and tries to speak again.

"The place was full of people, I had to get out of there. I didn't have time to change."

George climbs off of the sofa, feet bare where they travel the carpet. He pushes Mitchell's coat out of the way with his foot.

"I didn't have time to-" Mitchell stops talking completely, but George can still hear him breathing, long and slow and detached.

Droplets of red are starting to decorate the hall carpet, and Mitchell is cold, _freezing_ cold when George touches him

He flinches, then swallows audibly.

"I need to-"

"I know," George says, and prays that they're talking about the same thing. "Come on Mitchell, shower."

He eases him up the stairs, hands on his tense shoulderblades, leaving spots of blood on the walls and carpet, and he can hear Mitchell breathing on every slow, unsteady step.

George leans him against the bathroom wall, and turns the shower on, just past warm, but Mitchell won't care.

When he curls his fingers under the hem of Mitchell's shirt his fingertips touch bare skin and Mitchell tries to slide back through the wall, hands clenching and relaxing against his red-spotted trousers.

"George, don't touch me," Mitchell says carefully, and he sounds honestly afraid, like he might _do_ something.

"You look after me when I'm covered in blood," George says quietly.

"It's different for you." Mitchell's voice is slow but _insistent._

 __Though when George reaches out again, Mitchell doesn't try and stop him.

George catches hold of the bottom of his shirt again, debates for one awkward second what will happen if he tries to drag that much blood over Mitchell's face.

"Do it quickly." Mitchell clears his throat.

"Ok, ok," George slides it up, gathering the soaking fabric as he goes, half aware that this is someone's _life_. This thick gruesome patch of blood, is more than anyone should have to lose.

Mitchell slips his arms awkwardly free, and there are bright slaps and smears of red on his pale skin. George doesn't pause, he just drags the fabric over Mitchell's head. Feels him stiffen and hiss something strangled under his breath, face turning away from the shift of cloth and George's hands.

George throws the material to one side, hears it land, with a wet noise, in the sink.

Mitchell's eyes are flat black, when George backs him under the spray, pushes him under the fall of water, which makes him inhale sharply and then cough out water.

George pulls the blood off of his skin with quick sweeps of his hands, watches Mitchell run red, then pink, then pale, wet hair clinging to the narrow planes of his face.

George is quick, efficient and silent, water soaking through his shirt and leaving it clinging, water runs up his sleeves and down his neck where it's fallen out of Mitchell's hair, but none of that is important, not now.

Mitchell has his head tipped back against the white tiles, his eyes are closed and he's taking long, shallow breaths.

George still has a hand in his wet hair, threading between the long dark lines of it, but the water runs clean.

Mitchell's fingers slide around his wrist, hold it against the cool, wet skin of his neck.

"Mitchell?"

When his eyes open they're real again, and George breathes again. Though he's not sure when he _stopped_.

"Mitchell, are you all right?"

Mitchell licks his lips and very slowly nods his head.

But his fingers skid on the pulse point of George's wrist, one slow, considering movement that's oddly sexual.

George should tell him to stop.

Neither of them move for a long second.

Then Mitchell pulls like he can't resist, finds George's mouth with his own.

His lips and teeth are soaking wet, slippery when they push, and George can't help the lost, almost apologetic, noise he makes when he presses all the way inside.  Mitchell pulls him in with wet hands, until George is crushed into the cold, slippery length of his chest, water trailing down his back and over his hair, one hand skidding on the tiles the other touching- and then buried in Mitchell's hair. He opens when George pushes, opens without pause, and George's hands slide and catch on Mitchell's neck and waist, in ways he'd never quite known he wanted, until now.

But George knows kissing is wrong, he knows Mitchell is teetering on the edge of _something_ , and this can't happen.

 _Can't_.

He tips his head to one side, and Mitchell groans loss against the plane of his cheek. The sound of it shivering over the skin.

George pulls back, and Mitchell’s fingertips curl round his arms but let him go.

"Mitchell you can't," George says roughly, and though he _desperately_ wants to lean in again, to kiss Mitchell again he knows that he can't. "You can't."

"I know," Mitchell's voice is in pieces, but he leans his head back, closes his eyes and shivers. " _I know_."


End file.
